


Sanctuary

by AngelofDarkness1605



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-10 15:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3295670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelofDarkness1605/pseuds/AngelofDarkness1605
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the destruction of both his home and his shop leaves Mr. Gold temporarily homeless, Belle French offers her help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There's a deep emptiness in Mr. Gold, a numbness that would have greatly concerned him had he been aware of it. His eyes are unseeing by now, but he can't look away, can't even blink as he stands in front of the destruction.

"... can't stay here like this all night."

Only when something brushes against his lower arm, Mr. Gold becomes aware that he's not alone.

He tenses, subconsciously bracing himself. He is unaccustomed to human touch and he dreads it yet more now that practically all his certainties are taken away form him.

"Mr. Gold?"

He blinks with difficulty, slowly focusing on the woman at his side, who appears to be talking to him...  _touching_ him.

"Miss French?" he rasps, his voice hoarse from hours of disuse, of unfallen tears.

"Yes, it's me," she says, smiling a little at him.

"What are you doing here?!"

He understands that she sometimes comes to his shop for his collection of antique books, unknowingly considerably brightening his day with her company. But she doesn't come for books now. She  _won't_ come for them now. There are no books anymore ... there is no  _shop_ anymore.

"Finding out if there's anything I can do for you."

He snorts humorlessly. Miss French is one of the very few people in this unredeemable town who he trusts not to mock him, but even that certainty isn't indisputable any longer now that everything he still held dear in his life is taken from him.

"I'm worried about you," she says, briefly resting her hand on his forearm again. He shakes off the touch as if he has been burned, right along with his house.

"I assure you, there's no need for that."

He turns his back towards her, although it's mostly so he doesn't have to see the look on her face.

He might have been able to trust her before, but as of today he's convinced that he'll never be able to have faith in anyone again, not even the lovely librarian with her radiant smile and kind heart.

For all he knows, she is part of it.

It seems unlikely, but until a day ago he would have thought it unlikely too that someone would burn his house to the ground and ransack his shop.

"Do you have anywhere to go?" she asks, resting her hand on his upper arm before he can remind himself that he should walk away.

There's so much concern in her voice, such sincerity, that he turns back around to face her after all.

Mr. Gold was utterly convinced that he was very good at reading people, at gauging – and using - their smallest of reactions. He is quite certain that he'll never be able to feel that confidence again either.

Someone has planned his demise, a strike against basically everything he holds dear. Indeed, there probably have been several of such someones, given the incredible damage to both of his main properties. Given the smallness of the town and the viciousness of the well-timed attack, the plan must have been planned under his very nose... and he hadn't noticed anything only slightly out of the ordinary, hadn't seen any of this coming at all.

"Mr. Gold?" she asks, worry written plainly on her face.

"What is it?" he asks, wondering why, if she is indeed sincere, she would care for him in the first place. It's not as if anyone does... and for good reason.

"Do you have somewhere to go?"

He vaguely recognizes her question as the same one she asked a moment ago.

"I... I have a cabin in the woods," he says, answering the question this presumes at least that property of his is still standing, if only because there isn't anything of value there. "I suppose I'll go there."

He straightens his shoulders a little, relieved with the plan that Miss French's inquiry just inspired. It gives him something to do, somewhere to go where he might feel somewhat safe again... or at least, so will the gun that's hidden beneath one of the floorboards.

Mr. Gold turns towards his car, parked right behind him at the curb. At least he still has his trusted Cadillac, meaningless as the car always seemed compared to his huge house and the valuable collection of antiques in his shop.

Before he has taken three steps on the with glass shards covered pavement, he sees however that his car is standing at an unusual angle, leaning over to the left ever so slightly.

Yet another wave of horror washes over him as he spots the cause of this unusual sight: one of the tires of his car is completely flat. It must have happened at some point after he had raced to the shop, after he had received the second life-shattering phone call of that day.

He must have failed to notice that the glass from the shop's windows – or from the display cases inside or even shatters from his actual collection, there really is no way of knowing – cut right through his tire.

He blinks once, twice, despite knowing better than to expect that this will turn out to be not real somehow after all. He doesn't pinch his arm in an attempt to wake up though, this scenario too bizarre to be one of his frequent nightmares.

It slowly, breathtakingly dawns on him that there's no way that he can get to his cabin now, dragging him yet deeper into the bottomless lake of dread he has been drowning in ever since he was alerted that his house was on fire.

Mr. Gold doesn't know how long he has been standing outside, staring at the remains of his shop while the sheriff was spending there whatever time she could spare between the ensuing chaos on Main Street and in his own neighborhood.

What he does recall is that it was daytime when he returned from giving his statement to the sheriff, to take in the destruction that was left, as if he could undo at least some of it by sheer force of will.

It has gone completely dark by now. The garage is closed, there won't be a single cab driver willing to take him into the woods, let alone at this time, and there's no way that anyone would want to give him a ride, no matter the hour.

He feels sick in his stomach when he realizes that he currently has nothing but the clothes on his back and the admittedly well-filled wallet in his pocket... which won't get him all that far now that he's as almost vulnerable as he once was, in a town that collectively loathes him.

"I don't have a car," the librarian says from somewhere at his side, "but I can ask around to find someone who can..."

"This is none of your concern, Miss French," he says, not unkindly.

In all its apparent sincerity, her repeated offer to help him is one of the more bewildering parts of the worst day he has had in several decades. The notion that she's willing to try to make this day slightly less horrible is almost as scary as the knowledge that she won't succeed in finding someone who would want to give  _him_ a ride; it's a sort of deal he has very little experience with and this is a very, very bad moment to start.

"But..."

"I'll just rent a room at Granny's for the night," he grinds out, having to suppress a shudder at the notion of going to Widow Lucas for a place to spend the night. The cash in his wallet perhaps won't even be enough to cover the doubtlessly exorbitant fee she's going to charge for a room that was overpriced to begin with.

It's ironic, really. Until this afternoon, he was the richest and most powerful man in town. Now he can't even access a single of the variety of places to sleep he used to have... might not even be able to afford the only place in town where rooms are, theoretically at least, available to anyone.

He also very much regrets making certain to have all of his properties for rent occupied once more as soon as possible after one comes available... and that no one is going to be impressed by an old man with a cane who just, very publicly, lost everything he held dear.

"I think you need someone to be there for you," she says, as if there's such a person. "Especially tonight."

His words of protest never leave his mouth, for the impossible librarian takes one of his hands between her own, anchoring him in a way he hasn't been for almost as long as he can remember, even long before today.

"No one should have to get through this. Especially not alone."

Her hands are warm and gentle,  _real_ , not making him any more uncomfortable, even though the gesture itself is completely unfamiliar.

"I think it's for the best if you stay at my apartment tonight."

Somewhere deep inside of him must have hoped for this, needed and  _craved_ this perhaps, because he doesn't disagree with her, doesn't at least try to object to the invitation.

Telling himself that he doesn't have another option, Mr. Gold follows Belle French when she pulls lightly at his arm, guiding him away from the wreckage that his life has become.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Gold is ushered into a small, dark hallway a few minutes later, and from there into a somewhat larger but initially equally unlit room. The light is harsh and too bright in his eyes when Miss French switches it on, following him into what must be her living room.

"Just make yourself at home," she says, trusting and almost cheerful, as if she invites monsters into her house on a daily basis.

The landlord wouldn't know how to make himself comfortable in anyone else's home even if he wanted to. In fact, he can't remember the last time he actually entered another person's house – whether there were ever days that he did.

In his loneliest of moments he may have wondered about the life of this lovely woman, of the home she sometimes speaks of. But his eyes are unseeing when they glide over the decorations and furniture, his feet oblivious to the soft carpet beneath his shoes.

"Are you cold?" she asks, startling him out of nonexistent thoughts.

He isn't quite certain of that, only realizing the reason behind the inquiry when she tugs questioningly at the sleeve of his coat.

He wasn't aware that he's still wearing it, despite standing in the middle of her living room. Numbly shrugging it off his shoulders, he lets her take his coat from him, too shaken to notice that he's rudely breaching etiquette, the manners he prides himself on forgotten.

"Why don't you sit down?"

He lowers himself onto the couch that she guides him to, his limbs trembling. He's equally oblivious that she continues talking and that she presses a cup of hot liquid into his hands a few minutes later.

All he can sense is fire, the heat of the flames reaching him even now. His ears ring with the sound of breaking glass; he may not have been there when his shop was smashed, but he can imagine the destruction only too easily. Besides, he was most certainly present when the windows of his house exploded as it violently burned down.

His hands are shaking increasingly, the liquid in the cup she offered him almost sloshing over the edge. She takes the delicate china from him before he accidentally spills the drink over her floor.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He doesn't, not at all, but he figures that he might as well tell her about the images that are all but burned into his mind. At least, he supposes that's what one might do to begin to repay the kindness that his hostess is offering.

"I was in my shop this afternoon, just after lunch, when I received a phone call from Sheriff Swan. She informed me of a fire in my house," he says, his voice sounding flat even to his own ears. "By the time I got there, most of it had been burned down already. The firemen said that the fire must have been created on purpose, that an accelerant was used."

He shivers only more at the memory, even though the hellish heat might as well still be scourging him, the flames like a physical wall even from the spot where the Sheriff held him back.

"While I watched my home burn to the ground, a robbery in a shop on Main Street was reported to the Sheriff. From the way she looked at me when she was on the phone I knew it was  _my_  shop."

He shakes his head, still not able to fully grasp the horrific fact that someone must have loathed him enough to set all of this up, to destroy him to such a large extent.

"Because all available units were at my house, on the other side of town, the robbers were long gone by the time the police arrived at my shop. They had had enough time to take anything of value from my shop and destroy what was left."

"I'm so sorry about all of that happening to you, Mr. Gold."

She places her hand on his knee, squeezing him in what he supposes is a comforting way. He stares at her hand in disbelief, the gesture – the sheer notion that anyone is willing to touch him in a remotely friendly manner at all – bewildering him yet more than anything else he has gone through today.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Miss French. None of this is your fault in any way."

He believed before that anything and anyone could be responsible for the crimes committed against him and his property. But while looking in Belle French's shockingly blue eyes, he knows that there is at least one person in town who hasn't conspired against him.

"Still, I wish this wouldn't have happened."

The hand on his knee is still there, driving him to distraction, confusing him as much as the violence against him.

"Your kindness is greatly appreciated, Miss French."

He urges her hand off his person with insistent fingers, although he tries to do so with the gentleness she deserves. But he is not a gentle man and he is unaccustomed to touch, and her skin is much warmer – more real – than he thought it would be when touching it directly, tempting him into letting his fingers linger on her skin for just a few seconds or so.

"It's not as if that makes things any better for you, though."

She doesn't seem upset by the way he removes her hand, only angered by what has been done to him - really, who  _is_ this woman?

"It does make a difference to me."

He wouldn't have believed it before today, but Mr. Gold indeed finds the most unexpected of comfort in the knowledge that there is someone who is willing to help him – and who  _does_ , both by giving him a place to spend the night and possibly yet more so by simply being on his side.

She smiles in response to that acknowledgment, as if she is genuinely happy that her support has such a positive effect on him. The radiance of her smile is as mesmerizing as terrifying, and so is the lingering warmth where she touched his leg.

"Does Sheriff Swan have any idea who is responsible?"

Mr. Gold shakes his head in negation. He'd never admit it out loud, but he has quite some faith in the no nonsense approach of the town's sheriff. So when she says that there's not much that can be done, he believes her, unpleasant as it is.

He isn't even sure whether he'll try to find information himself, to haunt whoever did this to him via less official – and less legal - channels. It's not just that he doubts whether he himself can find the required clues; more than anything, thinking of anything related to today's events has phantom smoke choking him.

"The damage is done," he just says, his intended remark about the insurance covering his losses financially feeling so pointless that it's stuck in his throat.

"Maybe you'll feel better once you've taken a shower," she says, as if feeling his continued discomfort. It's a bad day indeed when others are able to read him like this, his mask slipped almost entirely. It's yet worse that he can' t bring himself to mind, that he trusts Miss French in a way he never should, especially not in this state of vulnerability.

"Yes," he replies, brightening ever so slightly at the realization that he at least can get rid of the smoky smell clinging to his hair and clothes, to his very bones.

Mr. Gold feels only worse though when he realizes that he can't take a shower, because his bathrooms - all four of them - are as destroyed as the rest of his house.

"The bathroom is at the end of the hall," Miss French says, his discomfort increasing only more when it dawns on him that she intends for him to use  _her_ shower.

"I couldn't possibly…"

He can't remember the last time he took a shower or a bath anywhere outside his own house, isn't even certain whether he ever has since leaving the home of the spinsters who raised him.

"The decision is of course yours, Mr. Gold. Just know that I really don't mind you taking a shower here."

The mere notion of imposing on her like this makes him yet more uncomfortable, but there is no mistaking his longing for a rush of cleansing water.

"Come on then," she says, almost playfully it seems, standing up and offering him an encouraging hand. He takes it and gets on his feet as well, too bewildered not to, and allows her to guide him back into the hallway.

"I'll try to find you something clean to wear. I'm afraid they'll be clothes of mine."

Mr. Gold hadn't thought of  _that_  yet. The realization that he has to rely yet more on her generosity has him faltering again.

Once more, Miss French is somehow not deterred in the slightest.

"Would it be so bad to wear a sweater and dressing gown of mine?" she asks quietly, with more sincerity than he has experienced in a long time.

He doesn't know what to say to that, can't put into words that he's more bothered by her offer itself than for him to wear clothes that don't belong to him.

"It wouldn't be," he replies. By now he knows better than to ask what she plans to get out of this, to wonder whether she does all of this out of nothing but the goodness of her admittedly large heart.

"Well then, on you go." She leads him into a small, chilly bathroom. "I'll be back in a minute."

She is indeed, handing him a small pile of clothing upon her return, just when he has managed to get his ruined shoes off his feet.

"I hope this will do. I don't have anything else that might fit you. Towels and washcloths are in the cupboard." She smiles at him when she closes the door. "Take as long as you like."

Taking a deep breath, Mr. Gold examines the over-sized shirt, sweater and dressing gown she gave him. They're as unfamiliar as the bottles on the shelf beneath the mirror.

His desire to clean himself stronger than his awkwardness, he selects two bottles which seem the least unsuitable and divests himself of his damaged, stinking clothing.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you feeling any better?"

Mr. Gold looks up when he returns to the librarian's living room, finding her curled up on the couch with a book on her lap. He fixes his gaze on her, abandoning his train of thought with regards to the strangeness and unsettledness of, except for his boxer shorts, wearing clothes so unlike his own trusted outfit… clothes usually worn by his ever impossible hostess, who is currently looking at him with concern written all over her face.

Making his way through the still mostly unknown room, he considers her question, concluding that he indeed feels somewhat better. His mind is still in turmoil, but less so now that he washed at least the physical evidence of the day's events away.

"I am feeling better, thank you."

She just nods, then gestures at the empty half of the couch next to her.

"I made some more tea," she says.

Supposing that it is the socially accepted thing to do, he sits down next to her, muttering his thanks when she offers him a steaming cup.

Trying to ignore the fact that his hair vaguely smells of roses, Mr. Gold has the presence of mind this time to actually drink the beverage she offered him. He sips tentatively from the hot liquid, finding its taste delightful. He isn't surprised in the slightest that, somehow, Miss French makes tea just how he likes it.

The warmth and the pleasant taste doesn't distract him any more than the shower did, however. The smell of smoke and the remains of soot may be removed from his body, but that doesn't go for the memories of burning heat and choking smoke, of  _betrayal_.

The awareness that at least a single person has conspired against him under his very nose - someone who might as well still be in town, someone he in all likelihood  _knows -_  is only fully dawning now.

"Is there anything you want to talk about, anything at all?"

Her gentle, unmistakably sincere expression shocks him almost as much as the hand which she places on his knee, squeezing lightly.

"I…"

His mind stutters to a halt again, her gentleness and kindness not remotely ceasing to bewilder him. It's like he can't breathe, but this time the lack of air in his lungs has nothing to do with smoke and fire.

"I'd be glad to listen to whatever you want to share, Mr. Gold."

Her hand is burning on his knee, but not in an unpleasant way. This time he doesn't free himself from her touch. He can only stare at it, not understanding.

He notices that he's trembling once more only when her free hand reaches for the cup of tea he's holding, its remaining content almost sloshing over the edge for the second time that evening. It's a good thing that she takes the cup from him and places it on the table, for the feeling of her warm skin directly against his own makes the quiver in his limbs only worse.

"You don't have to go through this all on your own, you know."

He can't look at her, doesn't know how to react to her kindness. He would have brushed it off in any other situation, but he has been shaken to his core already and can't reject this flicker of light, impossible as it seems to be.

"Don't hold it all back."

Her hand is on his shoulder now, caressing him lightly. He swallows with difficulty, but the sudden lump in his throat refuses to budge.

His vision is obscured by a flimsy layer, but only when the first tear drips down his face he realizes that he's crying. The noise of sympathy that Miss French makes leaves no doubt that she's seen it.

He blinks stubbornly, fiercely attempting to force the tears back to where they belong - far away, where no one can notice them, not even he himself. Despite his determination, he doesn't succeed in the slightest.

"Just let it go, Mr. Gold. You'll feel better afterwards."

He angrily wipes his eyes, but there's no stopping the salty liquid welling there. He bites the inside of his cheek, hard, but focusing on the taste of blood doesn't help him regain control over himself either.

Tears rolling down his face in quick succession, he abruptly turns his back to the librarian, not wanting her to see his misery, his  _weakness_. She is the last person he wants to see him like this, to add this defeat to his long list of flaws and failures.

He hasn't lost control like this for decades and he  _hates_ that it has to happen right now, right in front of her. He refuses to consider that her kindness has catalyzed this.

Rather than moving away in horror, she settles herself behind him, running her hands up and down his arms. The touch is soothing, just like the undeserved words of comfort she whispers to him. For a reason he can't identify, it upsets the pawnbroker only more.

Yet, there is no real force behind his attempt to get away from her patient touch, despite the tears falling only faster at each new act of kindness and acceptance.

Mr. Gold isn't all that relieved when she lets go of him after all. She has doubtlessly realized at last that she's consoling the weeping monster, who despite his sorrow is still very much a beast.

It's probably that unacknowledged but undeniable disappointment that has him all but crushing himself against her when she appears in front of him, sitting down on her knees opposite him on the couch and opening her arms.

The last time he was as desperate as this was when he lost his son. Now he has lost almost everything else he cares about, but that realization doesn't fully dawn just yet when he buries himself in Belle French's embrace.

He clings to her, pathetically, his arms tight around her and his face pressed against her neck, seeking solace he didn't know existed.

Her hands are on his back, stroking gently, preventing him from breaking entirely. It's not as humiliating as it was before to lose himself like this, his body shaking with his sobs now rather than the vain attempt to hold them back. She rocks him lightly, never ceasing to mutter kind words in his ear.

Mr. Gold cries in a way he never has before, in a way he didn't know anyone could, let alone him. In the protective shell of her embrace, the full extent of the actions committed against him sinks further in, the despair that accompanied it crashing down on him in its entirety.

The grief would have come sooner or latter, but the mortification that it's happening in her company only adds to his misery.

Yet, uncomfortable as this must make her, she's still holding him, consoling him as he sobs, staining her skin and clothes with his shameful tears and yet more embarrassing fluids.

Many minutes must have passed before his body decides that it's finally enough for now. Yet, he lingers in her arms, his wet face pressed against her equally damp neck. He tells himself that it's to postpone the moment he has to face her and see her disgust with his own eyes, but a long denied part of him longs to savor her warmth, the unexpected delights of this highly unusual nearness.

When he moves away at last, her fingers brush his face before he has gathered the courage to raise his head and meet her eyes. The continued tenderness of her touch, unlikely as it is, is undeniable.

" _Thank you_ ," he whispers, feeling better after this mortifying breakdown than he ever could have anticipated. Those two words can't begin to describe how grateful he is, but there's something in her eyes telling him that she knows how much this means to him regardless.

"Do you feel like sleeping?"

He nods in confirmation. Her question makes him aware of just how tired he is - and that the notion of closing his eyes and inadvertently letting his guard down isn't as terrifying as it was.

"Come on," she says, gesturing for him to stand up. She leads him to the other side of her apartment and he follows her, as blindly - as  _gratefully_ \- as he has done in the past few hours.

She guides him into a small bedroom that, judging from the lived-in coziness and lack of other rooms, must be  _hers_.

"Miss French, I couldn't possibly…"

He may have felt before that he intruded in her life, but this is taking it to a whole new level. Still, his bad ankle chooses that particular moment to send a jolt of pain all throughout him, reminding that he has been exerting the practically useless bones and muscles far too much that day by standing for so long.

"You don't have to, of course," she quickly says, "but it doesn't feel right not to offer you this room."

The harsh realization that he's a crippled man at least two decades older than her is a small blow compared to the rest of the day, but a blow nonetheless.

"You're my guest, after all." Her small smile might as well have been a ray of sunlight making its way through black, all consuming smoke. "The sheets are clean, I changed them while you were in the shower."

"But where will  _you_  sleep?"

"I sleep on my couch more often than not. I tend to fall asleep there when reading. I'm perfectly fine sleeping there tonight as well."

"Thank you," he says, his leg grateful indeed to sleep in a bed rather than on a couch, just like the rest of him. "I appreciate this very much."

"It's no problem at all. I'll be in the living room if you need anything. Sleep well, Mr. Gold."

"Good night, Miss French."

As soon as she has closed the door behind her, he shrugs off the robe she gave him. Settling among her yellow pillows and blue sheets, the subtle scent of roses surrounds him. That reminder of her soothes him rather than making him feel yet more awkward.

Laying down and pulling the covers over him, Mr. Gold makes himself as comfortable as he can be. Closing his eyes with a deep sigh, he finds it surprisingly easy to think of gentle smiles and soothing hands rather than fire and destruction.


	4. Chapter 4

His son is dying, the boy's very life slipping away from Mr. Gold as he loses purchase on his hand. There's fire and smoke too, suffocating and all consuming, and there's nothing he can do to save the life of his child, the only person in the world who matters to him.

"Mr. Gold?"

His son is dying, it's  _his_ fault, and…

"Mr. Gold!"

The pawnbroker's unseeing eyes burst open as he jolts from the bed, sweaty and quivering, his boy's screams and the roar of fire still howling in his ears.

"You're safe, Mr. Gold. You had a nightmare. But it's over now, there's nothing to be afraid of."

There's warmth then, of a still unfamiliar but good kind, when gentle hands soothe him.

"That's it, Mr. Gold. Breathe in deeply, in and out. Try to relax."

When he slowly comes back to himself, the screams of his son fading and the flames dying down at last, Mr. Gold finds himself in the arms of Belle French once more.

He is too shaken to withdraw from her, too tired, so he just sits there, trembling in the aftermath of the nightmare that included the most horrible moments of his life.

She caresses him, her hands slowly roaming over his back, from the nape of his neck down to his spine. He closes his eyes tightly, pressing his face against her neck, gratefully letting her anchor him in relative comfort and security, to keep the memories and the never ending fear at some distance.

She shushes him quietly, pulling him tighter against her when it fully dawns on him that not just the loss of his son, but also the destructive fire aren't only part of his subconsciousness. Not understanding why and how she can soothe him like this but very thankful that she does, he clings to the woman with whom he has never shared more than polite conversation until this night.

There are no tears this time, just a seemingly endless emptiness that would have swallowed him if it weren't for the arms around him.

She withdraws slightly, but before he can protest, or prevent himself from doing so, he realizes for the first time that he wears nothing but his boxer shorts and that the garment she's got on barely protects her modesty.

"Miss French…"

He can't begin to find words to apologize for confronting her with his state of undress, accidental as it might have been. It's no excuse that sleeping in her clothes felt too personal and that he hadn't expected to see her again after dressing next morning.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made you uncomfortable like this," she cries out, immediately increasing the distance between them. No amount of denial can change the fact that the lack of contact leaves him feeling bereft. "I'm so sorry. I heard you screaming and I came here as quickly as I could. I didn't  _think_."

"It's not about  _me_  feeling uncomfortable," he hastily interrupts, his mind spinning at the apparent notion that she thinks that  _he_ is bothered by their current lack of clothing. "This can't possibly be acceptable for  _you_."

"What do you mean?" she asks, confused.

"You and I sitting here, like this," he replies, sheepishly gesturing at his bare chest and her partly exposed torso.

"I don't mind," she says matter-of-factly. "But I thought you did."

"I… don't," he replies, stupidly. This time, he is the one confused, realizing that he indeed wouldn't have unexpected himself to be quite at ease in these circumstances, all thanks to her gentleness and kindness. "But you… how…?"

"You're not nearly as scary as you seem to think you are, Mr. Gold," she smiles, all sudden playfulness.

Subsequently, she retrieves several tissues from the nightstand, as if that declaration isn't more surprising than anything she has done for him so far,.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she continues, much more serious.

At this point, it doesn't shock Mr. Gold either that he unquestioningly lets her run the bunched up tissues over his arms and chest, her gaze never leaving his as she gradually wipes his perspiration away.

He holds himself as still as he can, savoring the ministrations as if they were an affectionate touch rather than a much needed action that he should have undertaken himself. That option is so much more enjoyable than trying to figure out what it all means, let alone ponder the implications of it.

The light from the hallway, the only thing between them and darkness, shuts off without announcement right after she has thrown the damp mess of tissues in the bin in the corner of the room.

The sudden change startles Mr. Gold. Her quiet explanation of motion detection and timers doesn't leave him any less disoriented.

"Are you all right?" she asks, somehow aware of his distress despite the pitch dark.

He makes a vague sound of denial, not knowing how to communicate his hope to remain connected with her one way or another, let alone how to do so without sounding utterly pathetic.

"Why don't you just lay down again? I think it'll make you feel better. Here, let me help you."

Her hand lands on his chest a moment later, blindly reaching for him in the dark, and he would have cried out at the contact if it wouldn't have been for her implicit warning a moment before.

"Sorry," she mutters, "I know my way around in this room no matter how dark it is, but I'm not exactly used to having anyone else here."

Her hand finds its way to his bicep instead and Mr. Gold is torn between telling himself that he doesn't miss the more intimate touch and considering the possibility that, somehow, he isn't the only one being out of his depth here.

She guides him back to the pillow, which he finds somewhat damp but not nearly as suffocating as it was when he awoke from his nightmare.

"I understand completely if you don't want to get back to sleep after what just happened, but you do need to rest, especially tonight."

He hums in agreement, convinced that the light she provides - light that has nothing to do with the motion detecting lamp in the hallway - will keep the nightmares at bay. For as long as she's with him, at least.

But she makes no sign of leaving when he makes himself comfortable in her bed, his body turned towards her. Her hand is still on his arm, stroking him lightly.

"Mr. Gold, please forgive me for my curiosity, but when you had your nightmare… it wasn't only about today, was it?"

"It wasn't, no," he says, without reluctance or even trepidation at her gentle prying.

"You cried out for someone," she offers.

If anything, he is grateful for the opening, the opportunity to tell her what he is about to share with her.

"My son," he breathes, a lump appearing in his throat and tears welling in his eyes at the memory of his boy, at the never ending guilt and sheer agony of having lost his boy. "He died."

His hostess gasps audibly but doesn't say anything, just continues to caress his arm.

"It was a long time ago," he adds, clearing his throat with difficulty, "but it never gets easier."

She doesn't ask any questions, doesn't offer any words of sympathy. Instead, she moves her hand from his arm to his head and starts to stroke his hair, providing yet more consolation. Unsettling as the touch is in its unfamiliarity, he accepts it gratefully.

It occurs to him that he should tell her more about his son when the time is right… that he  _wants_  to tell her at some point.

"Do you want to be alone tonight?"

He could only have imagined himself saying 'yes' to that question until a few hours ago. But whereas practically all of his old certainties are gone, it appears that he has found something new to rely on… or rather, some _one_.

It seems so very unlikely, but there's no mistaking the relief that spreads throughout his entire being at the prospect of her staying with him tonight.

"No, I'd rather not be," he says, his voice barely above her whisper. "Would you mind to… stay?"

"Not at all. I wouldn't have asked if I wouldn't want to offer, would I?"

She makes it sound so easy… she makes it  _feel_ so easy, for there is nothing but relief when she unceremoniously crawls into the small bed with him.

Mr. Gold is not even deterred by the knowledge that they'll have to  _spoon_  in order to fit both in her bed.

He inches towards the other side of the bed for as far as he can without falling off, determined to give her as much space as he can so she can decide for herself how close she wants to be to him.

She follows him immediately, her front pressing against this unclothed back and her bare arm draping across his equally exposed chest. She rests her face against the back of his neck, the feeling of her warm, regular breath another source of unexpected comfort.

It doesn't occur to him to remark that she's close to him to the extent that she must have whole inches of space left on her side of the bed.

"Is this all right?" she asks, her concern palpable.

"Yes," he rasps.

"Good," she responds, not nearly surprising him as much with that reaction as she would have done even an hour ago. He knows by now that, for some reason, it genuinely pleases her to help him like this.

"Thank you," he murmurs in return, her warmth and sheer nearness already anchoring him to a place where the memories and nightmares can't shake him to his very core. "Thank you so much."

"Good night again, Mr. Gold," she says, her voice partly muted by his shoulder as she burrows further into him.

"Good night, Miss French," he replies, tentatively placing his hand over hers where it lies on his torso, both to encourage her to keep touching him and to increase their contact.

Sensing that the second part of the night  _will_ indeed be good, Mr. Gold knows better than to blame her smile against his skin on his imagination as the two of them huddle together in the dark.


	5. Chapter 5

Mr. Gold rarely has pleasant dreams. When he does, such dreams never contain the warmth and pleasantness he's currently experiencing. So he holds on to his dream with both hands even as he slowly wakes, mentally clutching at the intangible sensations of happiness that surround him in an almost magical manner.

Far too soon, he becomes aware that he's indeed waking, the sweet delusion that his dream provided doubtlessly fully slipping away from him within mere moments. The feeling of a mattress and pillow is already undeniable beneath him.

All thoughts of dreams and joy come to a stuttering halt when Mr. Gold realizes that he is in fact in a bed that's not his own, with a woman's sleeping form in his arms.

 _Belle_.

That's when the memories come crashing back - all of them. The fire, the robbery, the loss of basically all his possessions… and Miss French's completely incomprehensible, invaluable support.

Which makes it only worse to find himself in such a situation with her. When she so very graciously offered to stay with him last night, when she was so very kind to hold him, she most surely couldn't have meant for him to end up spooning her, his front flush against her back, their bodies all but fused together.

His first instinct is to pull away as quickly as possible, to distance himself as much from her as he can. He'll in all likelihood wake her that way though and that will hardly make this any better. It's bad enough that he is holding her like this; it would be worse yet if she were to know.

That's why Mr. Gold aims to untangle himself as gently and carefully from her as he can. Even as he gingerly lifts his hand from her stomach, he savors the nearness of her, the unsuspected delight of being so close to her, warm and soft and  _safe_.

It's not as if she will ever feel the same way though, not with him being… well,  _him_. Taking advantage of her hospitality and kindness like this is the worst thing he could do, losing control over his treacherous body in his sleep.

He may have thought that he already lost all that had value to him, but as he shifts ever so slightly to create at least a resemblance of distance between their bodies, it dawns on him that there's something very worthy he can still lose.

Mr. Gold does not dare wonder what she might think of him if she were to wake right now, with him sharing a bed with her as if he's so much more than a man she has offered undeserved support in his darkest hours.

If he could alter the past, this would be one of the first of many things he would change. But he can't; what's done is done. All he can do now is make sure that she at least will never know how his body sought out hers in their state of sleep.

He can't shift further away from his hostess without taking his hand off her stomach. The landlord guiltily takes in the warmth of their nearness for a few more seconds, then lifts his palm and fingers ever so carefully off her.

Before he has moved his hand even an inch, it's covered by a smaller one, its fingers entwining with his. He freezes at the discovery that Belle apparently wasn't fast asleep after all.

Instead of forcefully pushing his hand away from her, she keeps it right where it is, hovering right above her satin clad stomach.

"Stay?" she asks quietly, sounding not nearly as sleepy as he expected.

"I…"

It's hardly the first time that he doesn't know what to say to her, but the implication that she might not object to being embraced by him like this leaves Mr. Gold truly speechless.

"I think I was awake before you were," she says, not sounding upset in the slightest. "I was aware you were holding me. If you want to stop doing that, it's fine. But just… I  _liked_ having your arm around me and feel you against my back. It… it really feels nice, Mr. Gold. If you don't mind, I'd love to just stay like this for a while longer."

"You… but…"

"You don't have to, of course! Not if you don't want to. But please don't have objection on my account."

He swallows, his mind scrambling as the rest of his being screams for him to accept her offer, to seek refuge in her accepting warmth and softness.

His usually so sharp mind can't come up with anything, but it turns out that no words are needed for his body to do what apparently both of them long for.

His heart races and his breath is shallow as his hand drifts back to her, guided by hers still covering his. But there is still no protest, not any sign that she is bothered by his closeness after all.

It's not as if this enables him to relax however - far from it. It already was a shock to find himself so close to her in the first place, subconscious as that process was. But finding out that she somehow appears to  _enjoy_ being in bed with him like this is something else altogether.

It's similarly surprising to him that he himself isn't disturbed by their contact, that he in fact quite likes it… a  _lot_. It's a revelation indeed after spending so many bland years alone.

The number of nights that he slept in the same bed as his ex wife is very limited; the times that they were together like this yet considerably more so. Unlike his late wife, Belle French doesn't grumble at the weight of his arm, doesn't seem to be irked by the unavoidable feeling of her breath against his neck.

If anything, Belle makes a sound of what he can only characterize as contentment when time continues to pass without him moving away from her after all. For a reason that he'll probably never understand, that lovely little noise turns into one of unmistakable delight when she scoots backwards, closer towards him.

Her movements are slow when she backs up against him, almost as if she's afraid that he'll object to the decreased distance between them, their closeness becoming yet more so than when he thought her to be asleep.

Although the physical contact is as baffling as it is unfamiliar to him, Mr. Gold finds himself embracing it in every sense of the word.

Belle relaxes as soon as she has stopped moving, and he holds his breath at this proof that she truly doesn't object to any of this. Following her example, he allows himself to do the same, his conviction of her approval finally persuading him to simply enjoy these most unexpected of developments as much as he can.

Consequently, it's only then that he truly can appreciate the soothingness of their embrace, the sheer comfort of being like this with someone whom he has grown to trust implicitly, to experience this whole new kind of innocent intimacy.

Mr. Gold tentatively rests his face in the curly hair right in front of him and, after her muttered approval, flexes his fingers ever so slightly to a yet more pleasant position. Not entirely successfully trying to ignore how their bare legs are pressed lightly against one another, he closes his eyes and inhales, the scent of roses and  _Belle_  surrounding him.

Despite her blessing, he barely dares to move, afraid that the slightest of disturbances will startle her into realizing what exactly they are doing, who he actually is.

"It's still early," she says quietly, "why don't you try to go back to sleep?"

She burrows further into him as if to emphasize her words, curling up against him. That's the final persuasion he needs to completely relax himself as well.

There are many things he has to do today, many truths he'll have to face. He'll have to pick up the pieces of his life, quite literally, for as far as any of them are left to begin with. He'll have to buy all items necessary for living on a day to day basis, not to mention replace the furniture, carpets and curtains - indeed, most of the walls, doors and windows of both his house and his shop. He doesn't dare consider the priceless antiques that are gone as well.

He'll have to take care of his house being rebuilt and find somewhere else to suitably live in relative peace until it is habitable once more. Finding a comfortable and quiet place to live in the mean time will be difficult, though. Evicting a tenant would make living space available in the short run, but that's not really an option now that he's going to need income more than he has for a long time… now that he's more vulnerable than he has been in decades.

He can live in his cabin in the woods for some time, but that space is far from prepared for full time habitation. He'll need to have the tire of his car repaired, too, not to mention thinking of what he's going to do with his shop now that it has been equally destroyed and all of his merchandise is stolen.

There'll be a police investigation into both the robbery of his shop and the arson at his home. He supposes he'll have to take statements in addition to everything else he's going to have to do, and….

"It'll be easier to start planning everything that needs to be done once you're fully rested," she says. She sounds considerably more sleepy than before, but that doesn't diminish her uncanny ability to know exactly what he is thinking.

Mr. Gold nods, sensing by now that he doesn't have to verbally reply for her to understand him. That doesn't mean though that he can just do as she suggests, no matter how much he agrees with her and  _wants_ to savor this most unlikely of opportunities.

But the thoughts of all the unpleasant work that needs to be done and the ever lingering memories of smoke and fire gradually fade to the background when his companion's breath becomes slower and deeper, her body going entirely limp against his.

Much more than before, he's aware of the faith she for some reason has in him, the trust it requires to allow him into her home, into her  _bed_ , for her to fall asleep at his side while he is wide awake… that there must be something about him that gives her such confidence in him. He knows better than to think her foolish, but it's still a mystery to him why she lets the town's monster into her life like this.

Still, just like the awareness of his thoroughly shaken life, that question disappears with the knowledge that he, at least for now, has found someone to rely on… a  _friend_  even, perhaps.

Drifting back to sleep with Belle French in his arms, Mr. Gold may have lost almost all his possessions, but he has never felt richer.


	6. Chapter 6

There's a lump in Mr. Gold's throat when he looks around the rooms where he has spent the greater part of the past year. Belle's house was once as unfamiliar to him as any part of the property he rents out, but it's become more than a home to him than his own house ever was.

"Well, I… I suppose it's time for me to go," he says, the pending departure weighing yet heavier on him now that it has arrived than he would have thought in the weeks leading up to it.

"I suppose it is, yeah," Belle says. It must be his imagination that makes her appear to sound as unenthusiastic at the prospect of their separation as he feels himself. "Now that your house has been rebuilt..."

He nods, unconvinced, more than ever not wanting her to know just how much he dislikes the notion of living all alone in a ridiculously large new house once more. Just like his old house, it'll never be a home to him like Belle's house is.

Mr. Gold still isn't entirely certain how she persuaded him to share her small apartment with him for so long, but he has become very grateful indeed that she persuaded him to live with her until his new home was completely rebuilt and redecorated.

Much more than her home as such, it's Belle herself that the landlord has grown extremely fond of. Her radiant smiles and beaming eyes have become something he can't imagine living without, not to mention her seemingly never ending supply of casual touches and nonchalant hugs.

Then there are the evenings spent huddled together on her couch, each of them lost in a book, and the regular games of chess or cards. His favorite part of living with her were the nights though, sleeping in each other's arms in her small bed, peaceful and safe and so very, very comfortable.

Then again, lately those nights haven't been so easy, not with his ever increasing awareness of her softness and warmth. The same goes for her contented sighs whenever he burrows further into her, his arm accidentally brushing against the underside of her breast every once in a while… of how his body has grown to react to hers, perversely and unacceptably.

It's probably for the best that he'll never spent another night in her bed again, that his new, luxurious bed will never be nearly as pleasant as her small, lived-in one. After all, Belle has banished the nightmares from his life, but being with her without his body betraying his desire for her has become a terror in its own right - a danger that doesn't only limit itself to the night.

The truth is, ridiculous as it is to him, that he doesn't want to go through life without her. It's not just that he has grown to love her as a friend - if only it were so easy. But much as he'd like to deny it to himself, he has slowly but very surely fallen in love with Belle French.

Mr. Gold can't imagine himself living without her, can't imagine not spending every hour of his free time with her. She helped him pick up the pieces of his deliberately destroyed life, especially when it turned out that none other than his own estranged father had plotted against him to deprive him of all his valuables and home alike.

He may not have thought it possible before Belle took him in, but he has found that the value of the possessions which the sheriff retrieved from his father is nothing compared to how rich he feels when sharing his life with her.

More than anything, it's the small things in their shared life that he can't imagine going without, the teatimes and jokes that made him enjoy his day to day existence in a way he never had before.

It'll be very difficult indeed to go back to a life where he doesn't spend a considerable part of each and every day with Belle, but at least the risk that he'll accidentally reveal that she's become yet more than his best and only friend will also be decreased that way.

It's for the best, really.

Besides, he supposes that they might still have meals together at Granny's every once in a while, still could go to his cabin in the woods sometimes to enjoy a lazy weekend away from the town. Then again, that is nothing compared to going back to a life without her smiles and books and music and blankets and laughter, her scent and her softness.

Indeed, the fact that she had a major part in designing and decorating his new home will make it only worse, because there won't be a curtain or rug or even a single piece of furniture that won't remind him of her, and her absence in his life.

"I'm going to miss you," she says quietly, stepping towards him.

"I'm going to miss you as well, very much so," he allows himself to say, telling himself that it's just his imagination as well that she appears to be holding back tears.

Dropping his suitcase, he gives in to the temptation to sweep her into a hug like they have shared so often, usually on her initiative, but the time spent pressed tightly against one another like this has never before been remotely this long.

"I don't want to say goodbye," she mutters against his neck, her hot tears sliding down his skin undeniably.

_Neither do I._

"It won't be goodbye, my dear," he says, choosing the only term of endearment he dares to use out loud. "We can see each other whenever we like. You can still come by in my shop in your break just like I can visit you in the library. We can still sit together at Granny's and you're welcome to visit my house or my cabin whenever you like."

"And you can visit here as well whenever you like, but it'll be  _different_."

"Yes, it will be," he sighs, his own tears starting to fall in the warm darkness of her embrace. "But it'll be a good thing. You'll have your own house all to yourself again. You don't want to share it with a grumpy old man for the rest of our life, do you?"

"You're not old," she snuffles, only tightening her hold on him, "and now that I've gotten to know you, I have found that you're very kind and charming underneath the harsh man you pretend to be."

"You'll be glad that I'm gone before you know it," he whispers hoarsely, telling himself that she doesn't mean her words like he wants her to do as he plays his last card. "You can move on with your life… there will be space for another man to live here, one you actually want to spend your life with."

Belle breaks away from him, her tear stained cheeks having what is left of his heart aching. He immediately misses the warmth from her embrace, but he might as well get used as quickly as possible to this new reality, the coldness and bitterness of going back to a life without her.

"I don't want to be with another man. I want  _you_."

Mr. Gold looks in utter disbelief at the only friend he's ever had, the woman who's the love of his life. Against his expectation, she doesn't retract her statement, doesn't alter it to indicate that she doesn't mean what she just said.

"I probably shouldn't have said anything because you obviously don't feel the same way about me, but… please don't imply that I can only be happy with another man, because it  _hurts_  to hear you say that."

Her eyes pleading and her lip quivering, his heart beats wildly at her words. It can't possibly be true that she has fallen in love with him like he has fallen for her.

But she's looking at him like she wouldn't object to being kissed by him, like she in facts  _wants_ to be kissed by him, unlikely as that is. Telling himself that one taste will be enough for the rest of a lifetime, that it won't matter that she'll come to her senses once she has experienced his doubtlessly pathetic attempt at kissing, Mr. Gold leans in to close the distance between them.

The kiss is gentle and chaste, hardly more than a brush of dry lips. Her quiet moan and the way she presses her lips to his more firmly is more than he could have hoped for. Carefully cradling her head in his hands, his fingers entwining with the chestnut curls he has longed to touch like this for so long, Mr. Gold realizes that having experienced this only once will never be enough.

Knowing what it's like to touch her like this only leaves him wanting more… much more. He withdraws anyway, telling himself once again that it's for the best, that there will never be more than this, like there  _shouldn't_ be. He's bound to disappoint her probably sooner rather than later if he were to be so unwise to give in to her apparent, but doubtlessly fleeting desire.

"I want you too, sweetheart," he says, his heart fluttering with relief and anxiety alike now that he can finally address her like he has longed to do for many months. "But I can't possibly give you what you deserve and…"

"You know better than anyone that no one decides my fate but me," she all but growls, yanking him towards her with two surprisingly strong hands on his suit lapels.

She slams her lips against his, making use of his mouth opening in surprise by maneuvering her tongue between his lips. Mr. Gold doesn't know how to participate exactly, blindly clinging to her and clumsily moving his tongue against hers, but he's distantly aware that she gasps into his mouth, keeping his face practically fused to hers with a wonderfully demanding hand in his hair.

They have collapsed onto the couch with her on top of him before he is aware that they were losing their balance in the first place. It's near impossible to be aware of anything other than her undeniable enthusiasm when she kisses and touches him and when he reciprocates as much as he can.

He's beyond breathless by the time she withdraws slightly for some much needed oxygen. The two of them look at each other with burning eyes, panting heavily in the air between them.

"I don't want you to go," she whispers, caressing the nape of his neck to emphasize her words.

"I don't want to be without you," he admits, shuddering at her touch and increasing his grasp on her waist to prove his own point. "But…"

"I don't want to hear any objection right now," she says fiercely, looking like she's ready to shut him up with another kiss at the first sign of protest from him. "Now that I know that you want us to be together as well, there's no way that I'm letting you go because you for some reason appear to be convinced that I don't want you."

Mr. Gold can only stare at her for a long moment before he remembers what he was about to say before she interrupted him. It's difficult to think after all, let alone put his thoughts into words now that Belle addresses him passionately while straddling him on the very couch where he so often found himself trying not to think of seemingly impossible scenarios such as this.

"I was just going to say we don't have to necessarily stay in this house," he replies at length, finally recalling what he wanted to tell her. "You know how fond I am of your home, but there's a currently empty and considerably larger and more comfortable house awaiting us on the other side of town."

"Are you saying that you're asking me to move in with you in your new house?" she asks softly, trailing impossibly gentle fingertips along his cheeks.

"I am, yes," he says without hesitation, gratefully leaning in to her touch. "I won't pretend to understand why you would want that, why you would want  _me_ , but I would very much like to live with you in my new house… to  _be_  with you."

"I would love that as well," she breathes, tears welling in her eyes.

He carefully wipes them away, barely able to believe what's happening but thoroughly determined to hold on to this highly unlikely chance now that it has presented itself.

"We aren't in any hurry to get there though, are we?" she asks, resting her forehead against his.

"I suppose not," he replies, his eyes fluttering closed in reaction to her nearness.

" _Good_ ," she breathes, closing the last distance between them. "Because I'd like to stay here for just a bit longer."

"So do I," he murmurs, just before her lips find their way to his once more.


End file.
